


with tears, with sweat, with blood

by cress_ent



Series: our fire rages, our hearts are never tame [1]
Category: Dream SMP war - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Sleepy Bois Inc, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Character Study, Dream SMP War, Gen, Rated teen for language, and is alone, l'manberg, otherwise known as cress loses their mind over tommy's arc in the dream smp for 2k words, tommy loses trust in everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cress_ent/pseuds/cress_ent
Summary: “We’re not the villains, right?” Tears drip onto the rough wood, onto his hands, they’re warm and salty and feel a little too much like blood. Rain is coming. “ Tubbo?”“What?”“Wilbur said— was asking, are we—” his voice catches in his chest, a half-sob shaking Tommy through to his core, unable to stop the tears that continue to fall, “are we the bad guys? Are we putting ourselves on the wrong side of history?”Tubbo fidgets with the music disc in his hands, twisting it around. “Isn’t it too soon to tell?”-or, in which tommy is brought to a series of realizations about himself, wilbur, l'manberg, and the cause he has given himself to.
Series: our fire rages, our hearts are never tame [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970710
Comments: 12
Kudos: 189





	with tears, with sweat, with blood

“Tommy, are— are you okay?”

Tommy drags a tired hand down his face. The sky is overcast, a monotone gray scrolling endlessly across the sky. “I don’t know, Tubbo, would you be okay if you knew that Wilbur had one of— one of your  _ most prized possessions _ , something you’ve risked your life for again and again, and gave you a fake instead? To keep— leverage, or power, or  _ something _ , over you?”

Tubbo walks over, wisely leaving the discs behind in his ender chest, (Tommy doesn’t know what he might do if he sees the discs again, the physical proof and reminder that even Wilbur, even the person he’s dedicated his life,  _ lives _ , to fighting with, can’t trust him) and takes a seat next to Tommy. It feels like so long ago, when the sky was a brilliant and unforgiving blue, when the sun caressed their faces and the familiar melodies of ‘Mellohi’ and ‘Cat’ drifted through the air, when Tommy was still welcome on these lands — in reality, it’s been no more than two weeks. Two weeks since the final round of presidential campaign speeches, two weeks since the polls opened and the people made their choices, two weeks since the last time Tommy sat on this bench, listening to music with Tubbo.

Two weeks since Tommy last felt safe.

“I— I’m sure he trusts you, Tommy—”

“Tubbo, he doesn’t even trust  _ you _ .” Tommy’s voice rises and cracks with desperation, with frustration, with the overwhelming sense of loss that floods through him. “Earlier, he told me— he tried to tell me that you’d turn on me, that I couldn’t trust you—”

Tubbo lets out a soft sound, eyes filling immediately with anger and hurt. “Tommy, you  _ know _ I’d never betray you—”

“Of course  _ I _ know that, Tubbo, but clearly Wilbur doesn’t! Doesn’t want to believe that we can be on his side, that we even have a  _ chance _ of being able to work together to save L’Manberg!” At some point Tommy stands up, and he finds himself pacing desperately in front of the fences that border the cliff face, thoughts running a thousand miles an hour as he pushes a hand through his already mussed hair. “Shit, I don’t even know if he believes in L’Manberg anymore.”

Either Tubbo didn’t have a response, or didn’t want to share it. 

Tommy let out a laugh, a dry and bitter thing. “You know what he told me? While we were worrying, wondering what Schlatt would next decree?” 

The silence sits heavily between them, as thick and dark as the clouds above.

He turns to the cliff face and the fences again, resting a hand against the rough wood as he looks out across the land — land he isn’t welcome in, land he hasn’t been welcome in since the day he swore his life to L’Manburg (to the cause) (to Wilbur). “He told me I’m never going to be president,” Tommy says, quietly, gravely, “that I never would be.” Another laugh escapes him, and he turns back to Tubbo, a little scared that he’d see his mania, his fear, his anger reflected back at himself. “I— I never  _ wanted _ to be president! It wasn’t even on my radar! But do you know what that tells me, Tubbo? Do you?”

There’s nothing in his voice but twisted bitterness when he next speaks. “Tells me Wilbur doesn’t think I can lead. Doesn’t think that I would be able to shoulder the burden that comes with the crown, or whatever.” (he is a loose cannon) (reckless) (tommy, calm)

Tears trail slowly down his cheeks, he wipes at his eyes and his hands come away wet, (with tears) (with sweat) (with blood) and Tommy knows that there’s no reassurance Tubbo can give him that won’t fall on deaf ears. “You—” Tubbo starts, and he stops, and he takes in the sight of Tommy gripping the fence that overlooks the cliff with tears dripping down his face, and he tries again, “Wilbur, he—”

Again. “He— you know that—”

Again. “He’s not —  _ bad _ —”

And—

Silence. Heavy. The clouds roll in, a deep thick gray, a blanket covering the sky that Tommy can’t kick free of. Rain is coming. 

“We’re not the villains, right?” Tears drip onto the rough wood, onto his hands, they’re warm and salty and feel a little too much like blood. Rain is coming. “ Tubbo?”

“What?”

“Wilbur said— was asking, are we—” his voice catches in his chest, a half-sob shaking Tommy through to his core, unable to stop the tears that continue to fall, “are we the bad guys? Are we putting ourselves on the wrong side of history?”

Tubbo fidgets with the music disc in his hands, twisting it around. “Isn’t it too soon to tell?”

Tommy inhales shakily, forcing the breath that leaves him to smooth itself out. “Wilbur told me he wants to blow up Manberg. Rig the lands the same way Eret rigged ours, and send it all sky-fuckin’-high during the festival.” If Tommy looks back the way they came, he can just barely see the glowing flag of Manberg through the fog, warm orange light cutting through the cool gray, cutting an imposing figure across the land. “He says it’s what we need to do to take back L’Manberg but— that doesn’t feel like the  _ good _ thing to do. But he’s Wilbur, he’s our president, and I want to trust him.”

He turns back to Tubbo. Static hangs in the air, the way it does when a thunderstorm is about to come pouring down, torrents of rain and shocks of lightning cutting through the air. “Can I trust him?”

Tubbo twists the music disc in his hands, meeting Tommy’s eyes with an unwavering gaze. “I don’t know.”

Rain is here.

There’s a moment where it’s just Tommy and Tubbo, heads tilted towards the sky, (it is unforgiving and grey) catching the raindrops on their cheeks and eyelashes as they fall. 

“I need to go,” Tommy says, eyes still trained on the clouds above, hot tears mixing with the cold rain. He breaks out of the half-trance he’s entered, and his eyes meet Tubbo’s, and Tommy wants nothing more than to run toward him with outstretched arms, run into a familiar embrace, but he sees the same regret and disappointment and fear reflected back in Tubbo’s gaze and he knows. He needs to go. 

Tommy unties the horse, Technoblade’s horse, from the fencepost he left it at — it’s methodical work, checking the saddle and the ropes and the bridle and all the other bits, he’s glad it doesn’t take any more of his mind than he can spare. “I— I have to go, Tubbo, I don’t—”  _ I don’t know what to do, or who I am, or what I’m fighting for—  _

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, and Tommy looks back at him, (he always will) “no matter what, I’ll be with you, alright? I’ll always be with you.”

A lump rises in Tommy’s throat, burning hot and hard to swallow, and he mounts the horse, gritting his teeth against the tears that rise anew against his lashes. “Just you and me, big man — you and me to the end,” Tommy says, and Tubbo grins, and Tommy feels the corners of his own lips tugging into a smile, and the rain is here, and he needs to go, and he guides the horse away, far away from the lands he can no longer call a home.

It’s fitting, the rain, the solitary ride back to their base, carved into the heart of a ravine — Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever felt as conflicted and solemn as he does now. His mind is full, flickering with images in full technicolour, and he doesn’t know how to press pause. 

_ “There’s a reason you will never be the president. _ ” 

Tommy hadn’t expected that to hit him as hard as he did, as though the words had crafted themselves into a steel-shafted arrow that sprouted from his chest — not even the pain of dying and respawning could have prepared him. 

It isn’t even that he  _ wants _ to be the president — because frankly, he doesn’t, he has no idea what he’d do with all that power, and knows he’s still too inexperienced to wield it properly, wield it well, wield it  _ right _ . Tommy’s satisfied with his role as the right-hand man. But it’s— it’s the shock of the realization, like ice water to the face, that he can give so much of himself away and still be viewed as unworthy to receive something in return. 

And Tommy— Tommy’s given  _ so much _ for L’Manberg. Given his life (lives) (respawning is traumatic and it hurts and he has done it more often than he’d like), given his  _ discs _ , the discs he spent hours upon days upon weeks trying to get, and trying to keep safe, given up his home to be the embassy, given his tears and his sweat and so much blood, red-hot and running between his fingers, for this nation, for this cause. 

“ _ Nothing you say ever really matters.” _

Tommy knows. He’s reckless. He’s a ‘loose cannon.’ He can’t be trusted, because obviously he’ll turn around and run his big fat mouth to whoever’s closest and ruin whatever plan Wilbur’s concocting this time. His ideas never make sense, and he doesn’t have the same charisma that Wilbur does, that makes people stop and  _ listen _ , really listen to what he’s saying. Tommy knows it all. 

(It hurts more, he realizes, when the barbed words that stick to him, pierce through his skin and soak his clothes with blood, are true.)

He thought he could trust Wilbur. 

Clearly, he was wrong.

The trees loom, tall and imposing, on either side of him as he rides, tears streaming down his cheeks, choked sobs escaping him as he makes his way through the familiar forest. The sky peers down, still a relentless grey, still crying right alongside him. 

Tommy knows not to believe the best in anyone — not after watching friends turn traitor, after seeing greed bring out the worst in allies and enemies alike, not after trusting and getting hurt again and again and again. But he thought, at the very least—

He thought Wilbur had  _ earned _ his trust.

Wilbur created the entire cause that Tommy had sworn to protect with his life. Wilbur built a nation from the ground with nothing but hope and his words, and Wilbur had run an election to consolidate his power, keeping it fair despite their personal aims, and Wilbur had been ready to build a nation again. Tommy— at the very least, Tommy thought that Wilbur had earned every ounce of trust he had given him. 

But with Wilbur asking all these questions, questions Tommy couldn’t answer, questions that would do more harm than good if given the space to be asked, with Wilbur going behind Tommy’s back and now, telling him to his face, that he doesn’t fully trust Tommy — it’s a punch to the gut. 

Tommy dismounts from the horse, ties her up in the cave to the side of the hidden entrance to their base in the ravine, feeds her some hay — “Thank you, and good job,” he says, covering her in a burlap sack because they don’t have any blankets but it’s raining and cold out. 

He’s soaked to the bone, the fierce chill of the winds piercing to the very core of him. There’s fire and light and warmth in their base — Wilbur is nowhere to be found, Tommy barely knows where Technoblade is on a good day — and it warms him a little, eases the shaking of his shoulders and the numbness of his hands. It does nothing to melt the ice that slowly encases his heart. 

Tommy sits on cold stone beside a dying campfire, any warmth that reaches him from the outside quickly snuffed out by how cold and empty he feels inside, in a ravine that echoes with emptiness. Tommy is the right-hand man of an exile that is all-too-eager to play the villain if it means he can destroy what he lost, if it means no one can have what he lost. Tommy has given his entire self over for a cause that is nothing more than ashes on the wind, burning too quickly and too fast. Tommy isn’t trusted, isn’t valued, isn’t  _ seen _ . 

And — the realization weighs on his shoulders, heavier than any crown ever could — Tommy is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii its me i hope you enjoyed this!! if you can't tell i've been spiralling deeply about tommy's character and role in the dream smp war. i simply think that there is so much nuance and depth that can be found in his character and i love it so so much. (if you're familiar with the soldier/poet/king dynamic coined by [this uquiz](https://uquiz.com/quiz/MYLbZ3/are-you-a-soldier-a-poet-or-a-king) then you'll understand what i mean when i say tommy in the smp war is a king with soldier tendencies)
> 
> leave a kudos and comment if you enjoyed!! they make my day~
> 
> find me on twitter [here!](https://twitter.com/MANGOP1E)


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